Robyn’s Secret Passage

I spent most of yesterday trying to figure out if I wanted to go to the Big Day Out. There were a few moments where I almost went off and bought a ticket, but in the end I decided to leave it until today.

And today I decided not to go. I was worried that maybe I was getting olde and didn’t want to go because I didn’t want to have to deal with all the 15-year-old punk-arses, but then I realised that I’ve not gone to the BDO before and I’ve been dealing with 15-year-old punk-Sand arses ever since the first BDO.

It came down to the basic fact that there weren’t enough bands performing this year that I really wanted to see, so it wasn’t worth the $100+ ticket to see a bunch of bands I’m not really into. And I also realised that wanting to see the Beastie Boys because I was really into them when I was 12 (Oh, how I was hot for Ad Rock. Oh, how I lovingly fondled the LP of “Licensed to Ill” in a local record store.), is not quite the best reason.

But I had taken today off work in case of the BDO, so I decided to go to the beach. The nearest nice beachy place to me is Mission Bay. I bussed into town and walked along Tamaki Drive, forgetting that it’s a good 6km along there. But it was a lovely day and the walk didn’t feel like 6km.

You know what happened at Mission Bay? Kids played in the fountain, people sunbathed on the beach, friends threw frisbees, dogs rolled in the grass, mothers wiped up melting ice cream and pigeons battled it out with sparrows for crumbs.

I was going to get the bus back to the city, but I’d just had an ice cream extravaganza and was all hyped up on its ice creamularity, so I decided to go for a walk up to Bastion Point. But once I got back to Tamaki Drive, I just kept on walking and didn’t stop until I was back in the city. Oh, so that’s 12km in a day. Behold my stamina!

I’m not sure exactly what I was doing at 1.59pm on Sunday, but I do know that I was sitting in a cinema in Village Queen Street, watching “Kinsey”. It’s quite a good film, but that’s not the point. The point is that I was not actively partaking in the minute of silence.

After the movie I went for a walk down to the waterfront. I saw a cafe with this written on its blackboard sign outside:

Please join us as we participate in a 1 minute silence at 1.59 in memory of the victims of the Boxing Day tsunami. Thanxs.

What would that have been like? Maybe you’d be sitting there with your cappuccino and eggs Benedict when the head barista would solemnly announce, “We are now going to have a one-minute silence in memory of the Boxing Day tsunami victims. Thanxs.”

Then everything would go quiet, except there’d be kitchen noises because table three ordered pancakes and they’re still cooking. You’d sit at your table looking at your coffee, wondering if drinking it would still be considered silence, or if it would be ok to take a sip.

Some 12 year-old punkarses would walk past trying to sound like adult black American gangstas, which would make at least one person start to giggle.

Then someone would walk in, unaware that the minute of silence was being observed, and would be trying to order an espresso and wondering why everyone was really really quiet.

And finally the minute, which by now would feel like five minutes, would be up and the clicking, grinding and sucking noises of the old espresso machine would again fill the air.

Everyone would breathe one of those collective sighs of relief and be glad that the gruelling minute was up, and would forget about the tsunami again.

Back in my day, metaller guys wore those slim-fitting black orange tab Levis, even if they were fat (especially if they were fat). Now I see that metaller fashion has got with the new millennium and that metaller guys are now wearing great big giant trousers, which, back in my day, metallers would have scornfully described as homie pants.

The thing is, a teen metaller (or worse, an early 20s metaller) wearing big baggy black trousers and a big baggy black Slipknot t-shirt along with the classic long frizzy hair (or the growing-out short greasy hair) and bad skin, just looks like a great big black blob. At least the metallers back in my day had a clear distinction between above and below the waist - at least there was some indication for the ladies where the fun was at, yo.

But, oh yeah, that’s right. It’s not about fashion or sex appeal; it’s about the music, man (and pissing off your stepdad).

I still believe in the romance of New Year’s Eve, of something magical happening at the stroke of midnight.

But, in a most unromantic twist, I’m doing something this New Year’s Eve that I’ve never ever done before; I’m spending New Year’s Eve entirely on my own.

It sounds horrible, but it’s not. It’s actually just like any ordinary evening. It helps that I had to work today and that I’m working tomorrow. If I put my iPod on and turn up the volume, I can drown out the music, fireworks and cries of merriment from others.

O, lonely moon, etc.

I had a walk around town after work tonight. There was an odd atmosphere, with people scattered about town with collection buckets for tsunami aid and the usual blend of semi-pissed revellers. “Eh, Osama. Good one, Osama,” slurred a fellow to a Sri Lankan collector.

I noticed that ponchos are very common at the moment. There are some that appear to be made from a cheapish-looking nylon material. I think, as a general rule of co-ordination, that it is not advisable to wear an item of clothing that is as lank and stringy as one’s own hair.

I also noticed that I don’t own a poncho. This is probably because I’d end up looking like an old gran in a shawl if I attempted to sport one.